


The Blind Beggar

by Redrikki



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Blind Character, Canon Disabled Character, Gen, Poverty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-29 19:27:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8502463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redrikki/pseuds/Redrikki
Summary: When Ezra objects to Kanan taking point on a mission, Kanan decides its time they had a talk.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [hurt/comfort bingo](http://hc-bingo.livejournal.com) challenge 'begging.'

“I hate this plan,” Ezra said the second Kanan announced that _he_ would be taking point on the next mission. “This is a terrible plan.”

Kanan inhaled sharply through his nose and tried to exhale his annoyance without much success. This was what he got for backing off from the mission the way he had. His own padawan didn’t even believe in his anymore. “Well, maybe,” he said through gritted teeth, “if you’d let me finish—”

“The plan is solid,” Hera insisted. She slid her hand across the holotable to give Kanan’s a supportive squeeze and some of his tension melted away.

“Thanks.” Kanan flashed her a grateful smile. “As I was say—”

“The Empire knows our faces, but they wont even be looking at a blind beggar,” Sabine added. 

“Exac—”

“Makes sense,” Zeb said. “No one pays attention to beggars.”

“Yes, great.” Kanan threw up his hands. Apparently he couldn’t be trusted to explain his own plans anymore. “Anyone else want to chime in? How about you, Chop?” 

The droid’s gears creaked as he backed away from Kanan’s misdirected ire. His anger wasn’t Chopper’s fault. It wasn’t even the crew’s fault. This problem between him and Ezra was entirely because of him.

“Stop joking around!” Ezra slammed his fist against the holotable. “We shouldn’t be begging, Kanan least of all.” 

“Ezra!” Hera yelled sharply.

Kanan sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “He just ran off, didn’t he?” First his little tantrum over Sabine’s undercover mission and now this. Ezra’s teenage drama was getting old.

“I’m sorry, love.” Hera gave his arm a comforting squeeze. “I’ll go have a talk with him.”

Kanan shook his head and pulled away. “I sense this is something the two of us need to work out on our own.” He headed out towards the base perimeter, but no. The wilds were where _he_ went to get his head on straight, but Ezra liked someplace that made him feel enclosed, safe. He followed the trail of Ezra’s distress back into the base proper, stumbling through the maze of half-empty supply crates and fuel canisters.

There was a strange hitch to Ezra’s breathing. Had he been crying? “We need to talk,” Kanan said when he found Ezra’s hiding place.

“I know,” the boy sighed as he dragged himself out from behind a wall of spare fighter parts. For all his passion back at the briefing, he seemed subdued as he slumped down onto a crate. 

“What was that back there?” Kanan asked as he sat down next to his padawan. “I know I haven’t exactly been around since—” he gestured to his face “—but you have to trust that I can handle this.”

  “I do trust you,” Ezra insisted, seizing Kanan’s arm. The intensity of his voice was startling. “I trust you, but you don’t know what it’s like.” 

“What what’s like?”

“Begging.” Ezra’s voice cracked on the word. “People look at you like you’re trash, like you’re _nothing_.” He sniffled and dashed his hand across his face to banish his threatening tears. “You have no idea what it’s like when you’re scared and alone and need help while people just _spit_ on you.” 

Ezra was so capable and confident that sometimes it was easy to forget that he had once been a terrified seven-year-old struggling to survive without his parents. “Ezra, I’m sorry.” Kanan curled a comforting arm across the boy’s shoulders, prepared to reel him in for a hug if he needed it. “I’m sorry you had to go through that, but I _do_ understand.” 

“Don’t say that!” Ezra shouted and flung Kanan’s arm off him. “You’re a Jedi. You’ve never begged in your life.” 

Kanan took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Ezra didn’t know. He couldn’t know. Kanan hadn’t told him. “You’re right,” he said once he was calm enough not to say something he’d regret. “After Order 66, I had nothing. No food, no money, nowhere to go, but there were too many clone troopers hunting for me to risk being seen.”

“What did you do?” Ezra crowded in, caught up in Kanan’s story.

“I lived on the street and I ate trash until a kindly criminal taught me how to steal.” Kasmir had liked to play the gruff loner, but he had taken Kanan in like a stray Loth-cat, feeding him, sheltering him, giving him the tools he needed to survive. Kanan swallowed hard. He’d never really talked about this part of his life with anyone, not even Hera. He didn’t like remembering that scared, desperate boy. “I wouldn’t be alive talking to you if it wasn’t for him. I would have died of pneumonia, or starved, or been shot by clones.” 

“I never…” Ezra shook his head. “You never said.” His tone wasn’t exactly accusing, but was certainly disappointed. With Depa, Kanan had known he was getting damaged goods. How disappointing to realize your Master was human after all.

Kanan snorted. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but none of us are exactly itching to share our tragic backstories.”

“I guess not,” Ezra agreed. “And I guess you _do_ understand, but I still hate this plan.” 

“Well, that’s too bad, because the plan is a go.”

****  
The ragged old coat reeked like it’s previous owner had died wearing it. After three days without a shower, Kanan was pretty ripe himself. It was all for the show, but, as he pulled it on, Kanan felt like he was falling backwards in time to an alley on Kaller. Maybe Ezra had a point. Kanan was a grown man, but the fear and desperation of those days still clung to him like a bad smell.

Kanan adjusted the coat’s grimy lapels and plastered on a smile. “How do I look?” He spread his arms and turned in a slow circle to give the crew the full effect.

“Nice and disreputable,” Hera said. “I wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot pole.” 

“It’s pretty good,” Sabine agreed, “but it needs one last touch.” She looped something over Kanan’s neck and stood back to admire her work. “Perfect.” 

Kanan ran his hand down the fraying rope and traced the edges of the sign. He could feel lettering, but couldn’t make out the words. “Do I want to know what this says?”

“‘Blind veteran.’ I figure they’re less likely to roust you if they thing you used to be one of them.” 

“Good thinking, Sabine.” Kanan grinned at her. The best part was it wasn’t even a lie. He was a veteran, just of the wrong war and the wrong side. If he was lucky, the misunderstanding might earn him enough sympathy to score him some credits.

“Don’t forget your cane.” Zeb practically smacked him in the stomach with it. “Go on.” He shoved Kanan down the ramp. “The sooner you get this done, the sooner we can get rid of that smell.”

Kanan stumbled a bit, then righted himself with a little help from the cane. The sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could shower. Talk about incentive. 

“Wait!” Ezra called and Kanan tensed, bracing for the worst. He turned back as Ezra tramped down the ramp. “Here,” Ezra said, thrusting something into Kanan’s hand.

He fumbled it for a moment before his fingers found the handle. “A mug?”

“Well, you need _something_ for people to throw their money in.”

Kanan’s mouth curled into a slow smile. A peace offering then. “Yeah,” he agreed, “I guess I will.”


End file.
